Resurrection of a Monk
by Salome Sensei
Summary: When Sesshomaru revives a fallen Miroku with Tenseiga, he faces unwanted responsibilities, temptations, and rewards. A tense story of Dominance/submission. Adults only, please.
1. Chapter 1

© Salome Wilde, 2008

Author's Note: I promised Sesshomaru (in "Deus ex Sesshomaru no Machina") that I'd toss an uke Miroku to him for a Seme treat. I fulfill my promise in this story…sorta. I'm opting for a serious/romance tone, as I think a little angst will be good for growth for both. Lemon coming in chapter 4.

Resurrection of a Monk

How fragile humans are, thought Sesshomaru, looking down from the cliff's edge at the monk's prostrate form. The inuyokai had watched without intervening as the human attempted to fend off Naraku's horde of lesser demons. In the battle, the monk—whose name he knew to be Miroku—received multiple wounds even before the swarm of saimyosho was upon him. Weak and bloodied, he had thrown spell scrolls, swung his staff, and finally, in desperation, released the wind tunnel in his palm, absorbing dozens of Naraku's insects before sealing his hand as he fell to earth in a heap. Without his companions to fight beside and deflect some of the attacks, the monk was doomed.

Sesshomaru suspected that Miroku had been heading to the same shrine as he, albeit for different reasons. The Uesugi shrine was said to have been visited by his father, the Great Dog Demon. It was a place he had come to focus and restore his powers after battles. Sesshomaru had even heard it had regenerative powers. Inuyasha had taken his arm in battle, and he had afterwards used the jewel shard-enhanced replacement Naraku had given him, to ill effect. Since this time, Sesshomaru had become determined to renew himself properly and permanently. He would have his revenge on both worthless hanyo opponents, especially Naraku.

He could guess that the monk's motives were quite different. From afar, he had noted Miroku's penchant for lechery. Jaken had reported that the shrine was protected by twin human priestesses that no doubt would be considered beautiful by men such as this feeble monk. To Sesshomaru, they were merely obstacles to his regeneration.

The inuyokai leapt neatly down to stand beside the fallen human. His tawny eyes evaluated emotionlessly. He was not moving. Not breathing. Sesshomaru contemplated the scene before him: a small dead mortal body in the midst of upturned soil, the ashen remains of lower demons, fallen saimyosho that had not been absorbed into the wind tunnel. This Miroku was a fool who gave his short, meaningless existence away too easily. Nonetheless, Sesshomaru found he could not relish his death. He was not an enemy, just a fool. And it was not his responsibility to save him from his rash self-sacrifice. He turned away.

After a few steps, he found himself in thought: he and the monk, two solitary figures, both victimized by Naraku, both entangled in the life of Inuyasha. But the similarities stopped there. He looked over his shoulder at the crumpled corpse. No, Miroku meant nothing to him. He returned to the body. Unsheathing Tenseiga, he watched as the demons of death appeared. He raised his sword and slashed through them.

Resurrection held no fascination for Sesshomaru. Tenseiga was not the legacy he sought from his father. The monk shuddered, breathed. His eyes opened softly to behold his savior. His lips parted but he did not speak. Sesshomaru sheathed Tenseiga and walked away.

"Wait," came Miroku's hoarse voice.

Sesshomaru stopped.

"Please…what happened to me?" he said, rising to a seated position.

Sesshomaru turned and met the monk's frightened gaze.

"I remember…fighting demons. There were too many…and saimyosho…I could not…I was wounded…poisoned…I collapsed…."

Sesshomaru blinked his cold, impassive eyes.

Miroku's pulse raced. He held up his hand. His palm was covered and sheathed safely in his prayer beads. "How was I healed?"

There was no answer. Sesshomaru pivoted on a delicate heel and walked away.

Miroku dropped his head into his hands. He felt weary but unwounded, free of poison. What had happened here? He knew with certainty that he had been fighting Naraku's demons. He knew his quest: to defeat Naraku, the one who had cursed his grandfather and his father and him in turn. He knew he had come upon the demons on his solitary journey…somewhere. Was there more? He brought to mind the tanuki Hachi, his sometime companion, but Hachi had not been with him this day. It felt as if there were others he should know and remember. But no. He was a solitary traveler, had long been so.

He definitely did not know the tall, slender demon that had just stood before him, sword unsheathed, as he lay wounded. Yet was he friend or foe? Would he have killed him if he had not awakened? No, that made no sense. He was easy prey, even if somehow the poison had not harmed him, even if the wounds had somehow vanished. What seemed more likely was that the yokai stranger had healed him, yet this did not seem logical. Why would he save a stranger, and a mortal stranger at that? Perhaps he, too, was an enemy of Naraku? That must be it.

Miroku rose, grabbed his staff, and scrambled after the retreating white-maned figure. If he had, indeed, saved his life, he owed him thanks. And, if he was after Naraku, despite being himself a demon, he might even offer allegiance.

Reaching his side, Miroku kept pace and took in the silent majesty of his apparent rescuer. This was no ordinary demon. With his every step, he exuded power and composure. He inspired deference in the young monk. "My Lord," Miroku began, bowing his head and hoping the yokai would again stop for him. When he did not, Miroku rushed ahead and dropped to his knees before him. "Please, Demon Lord, tell me: did you save my life just now?"

Sesshomaru halted before the monk. He paused, considering the best path of response. Strictly speaking, he provided resurrection not rescue, but no matter. Looking out at the clouds that dotted the sunny sky to gauge whether he would reach the shrine before sunset, he offered a single syllable of affirmation.

At the terse reply, Miroku realized he had better respond quickly and persuasively if he did not wish to be left behind. He could not tell why, but he suddenly felt as if he were missing answers to more than how he had just been healed. He must not let himself be abandoned here. He bowed low, touching his forehead to the earth. "Please allow me to offer my humble services in repayment of your generosity, Demon Lord. You will find me both honorable and dutiful. My life is yours to command."

Even as the words poured forth from him and he awaited its impact, Miroku knew he might be making a dreadful mistake. Who knew what this being's motive was for saving him. He might be Naraku's enemy, but he also might be a demon of equal malevolence with his own agenda. And there seemed little chance he would suddenly decide to explain himself. For long moments, Miroku remained in his submissive posture.

Sesshomaru eyed the monk with suspicion. Was it possible the pathetic creature truly did not know him? His instincts told him the situation was as it seemed. He was afraid and panicked. All right, Miroku had forgotten who Sesshomaru was somehow, through the injuries he had sustained or Tenseiga's effects. Either was unfortunate, but, regardless, he was not the inuyokai's responsibility. "I need no one to serve me, monk," he proclaimed. "Return to your companions."

Miroku felt his heart clench. This must not happen. "Demon Lord, I have no companions. Please let me follow you."

Sesshomaru's expression did not change, but he felt a pang within him that he detested and recognized: responsibility. Just as he had suffered after he had revived the wolf-mauled Rin, he experienced now a visceral reaction when he thought about abandoning the monk. One was a child who had lived through more misery than most adult humans, the other an adult human whose mind had returned to a childlike dependency. He cursed himself for whatever inexplicable sentiment had led him to return this creature to life—and into his care. But what was done was done; Sesshomaru was not one to dwell on regret. And in this case, he knew he would have to endure the human's presence for long. He would bring Miroku to Inuyasha and let him deal with the aftermath. "Come, monk," Sesshomaru intoned, walking around him.

"Thank you, Demon Lord, thank you," Miroku gushed.

"My name, monk, is Sesshomaru."

"Yes, Sesshomaru-sama," Miroku pronounced, reverently and without a hint of recognition, and followed.

Author's Note: I hope I can be forgiven for the overused amnesia element here. I'm trying to make it as plausible as possible, and I promise to use it to its fullest angsty (and most credibly lemony) potential.


	2. Chapter 2

© Salome Wilde, 2008

© Salome Wilde, 2008

Resurrection of a Monk

Chapter 2

Miroku trailed obediently behind his new master, feeling both lost and newly found. He wished he could remember where he had been heading when he was attacked, but he also knew it did not matter. Lord Sesshomaru had saved him, and his life was now proudly turned to the powerful yokai's service. Watching him as they walked, he could not help but notice how regal was his bearing, how straight his back, how perfectly matched his small, swift steps. This demon was worthy of obedience and respect; he felt it deep within him. Perhaps it was divine will that had brought them together this day. 

Where were they going? Miroku could not tell. He must center his mind on the moment, on simply following. The flow of Sesshomaru's thick hank of silver-white hair, swinging softly at his hips as he strode, became the image through which the monk entered a walking meditation.

Sesshomaru paid little heed to his new charge. He focused on the first task he had decided upon: returning to tell Jaken and Rin his plans. Then he would find his brother and relieve himself of this mindless monk. Soon, however, he grew tired of this mortal method of reaching a destination. He realized that if he did not take to the air, he would have to allow the monk to eat, drink, and rest. Damn these weak humans. Without a word, his actions nearly a blur, he turned, grasped the monk at the waist, and hoisted him into the sky.

Miroku reacted instinctively, clutching his demon master around the shoulders as they became airborne. His stomach lurched, and he pressed his face into the enormous ruff of fur before him for relief. Was it the soft muskiness of it or the sensation of hurtling through the air that made him lightheaded—and deliciously so? As he surrendered to Sesshomaru's control in this new and stimulating way, an image came to him of riding on the back of a great yellow cat, his arms around another's waist—a woman's! What fantasy was this? He probed tenderly at the image, afraid he would lose it entirely, but it also brought with it feelings of disloyalty. He was Sesshomaru's now, not this black-clad woman's, if indeed she truly existed. He rested his head and soon drifted into a much-needed slumber.

Sesshomaru felt the monk's weight shift at his side, from tense and frightened to obedient and clinging to a heavier, slumbering mass. There was no difficulty in carrying him: Sesshomaru's slender frame disguised a massive yokai strength. His mokomoko rippled at his shoulder as Miroku rested his head upon it. The sensation was not unpleasant.

As the sun set, the demon and his human passenger arrived at the clearing where Jaken and Rin sat, scaling fish. Rin's high-pitched voice was laced with petulance as she complained loudly of the fish's odor. Jaken's nasal scold was equally loud and even more grating to Sesshomaru's sensitive ears. The inuyokai touched lightly to earth with the monk still clinging to him, stirring in his sleep. Rin leapt up, tossing the fish carcass carelessly—or perhaps intentionally—into Jaken's lap, and ran toward Sesshomaru, arms outstretched. 

"Sesshomaru-sama! Sesshomaru-sama!" she squealed. She would have flung herself at him, but was stopped short by the sight of the monk in his arms. "Oh, you have brought Hoshi-sama to visit us! Is he all right, Sesshomaru-sama?"

Miroku woke at the sound of Rin's greeting. He felt he should let loose of Sesshomaru, but the yokai did not seem inclined to release him. He wondered at it but did not speak. The firm grasp was soothing to his unsure mind. If nothing else in his world were certain, the grip said, this yokai's power is.

"Yes, Rin," Sesshomaru said, taking a few steps forward and releasing the monk onto the soft ground beside the small cookfire. "The monk is well."

Miroku felt like a child, handled delicately by a strong father. He looked up into Sesshomaru's eyes but found no reinforcement for his feelings there. His savior's gaze was cold, impenetrable. 

Rin went to the monk and subjected him to an exuberant questioning: "Why are your robes torn so, Hoshi-sama? And your face is all dirty. Did you do battle? Did Lord Sesshomaru rescue you, Hoshi-sama?"

"Yes, child," replied Miroku. "Sesshomaru-sama is my master now." He knelt and bowed humbly, for the child must be the lord demon's daughter. But who was the small green yokai shuffling forward and shouting?

"Rin, do not bother Lord Sesshomaru and the monk with your foolish questioning!" Jaken screeched. "Go back and finish preparing the meal!"

"Oh, Sesshomaru-sama," Rin continued with zeal, as if she had not heard Jaken's shrill command. "Will Hoshi-sama stay with us now?" She turned back to the monk and took his hand. "Lord Sesshomaru is the greatest warrior in the land! He saved me and now he saved you, too! Please, Miroku-sama, say you will stay with us! We can play together and you can help us cook the horrible fish Jaken catches!"

"Lord Sesshomaru has no need of other followers, Rin! You are lucky he puts up with you. Now do as I tell you!" Jaken's whole body puffed with outrage.

"Rin," Sesshomaru interrupted, his voice an unconditional command.

The girl fell instantly silent and released Miroku's hand. She stood at attention, a perfect little child soldier, thought Miroku. …But was she truly the yokai's child? …and how had she known his name?

"Take the monk to the river to wash himself. I will speak with Jaken."

"Yes, Sesshomaru-sama!" Rin shouted her respect in her most adult voice. She took Miroku's hand again and dragged him off, chattering a list of the all they could do together when he was not busy serving Lord Sesshomaru.

Sesshomaru turned to Jaken, who stood in uncharacteristic silence. He seemed about to explode. Sesshomaru had no trouble reading his emotionally volatile vassal, of course. Jaken was obviously afraid he would be displaced from his presumed status as most loyal and valued adherent. But knowledge of Jaken's motives and a willingness to indulge them were two entirely different matters. Before the creature rallied his senses enough to speak, Sesshomaru made his declaration: "The monk was injured and has lost his memory. I will return him to my brother's care. You will stay here with Rin until I return." He turned away, just as Jaken found his voice.

"What has that fool done to deserve such attention from the great Lord Sesshomaru? Surely he could not have done you any service deserving of such attentions. Let me escort him so you need not sully yourself with his unworthy presence, Sesshomaru-sama."

Sesshomaru glared down at Jaken. Both knew that if the little yokai spoke another syllable of protest, he would be soundly thrashed. Instead, he bowed deeply and muttered, "Yes, Sesshomaru-sama." But, as he did, he wondered what had transpired between his master and the monk to inspire such kindness. Whatever it was, he resented it.

At the river, Miroku splashed cold water onto his face and took stock of his tattered garments. He marveled that the blood on his robes found none to match it on his flesh beneath. What had Lord Sesshomaru done to heal him so? Perhaps the child would know. First, though, he needed to know how she knew his name.

"I remember your friend Lady Sango telling me it when I asked. I told her you were handsome—though not as handsome as Lord Sesshomaru. She laughed. Will you marry her someday, Miroku-sama? Lady Kagome says you will."

Miroku did not know how to respond. Sango? Kagome? The names, it seemed, should be known to him. But they did not resonate. Should he ask the child more? How was it that she knew him and others who apparently were close to him but he did not know any of them? The girl looked up at him earnestly, and her open nature touched him. Having Sesshomaru for her parent or guardian or, in any case, protector, must bring her the sense of safety and security that radiated from her. Perhaps she had never known the kind of hardship he faced. He rubbed his hand, thinking for the thousand-thousandth time how different his life might have been had his grandfather not been cursed by Naraku. Could this yokai lead him, protect him, help him to forget his anguish, just for a time? Certainly, he had healed him in some miraculous way. Perhaps he was equally capable of other wonders. Miroku wanted the opportunity to find out. If this meant shedding a past he could no longer remember, so be it.

This reverie was interrupted by Sesshomaru's appearance. Silhouetted by the setting sun, he was magnificence personified. To the longing eyes of the resurrected monk, all of life was this demon god of icy beauty and commanding elegance with his strong arm wrapped around his waist, carrying him off to whatever destination his will or whim dictated.

Sesshomaru spoke: "Come, monk." Miroku rose at once, bowed in deference to the child that was Sesshomaru's in a way he increasingly hoped also to be, and came to stand at his master's heels.

Rin rose, too. "Must you go, Sesshomaru-sama? You only just got back," whined Rin. "Couldn't you at least leave Hoshi-sama here? We were just getting to know each other."

Sesshomaru looked down at the child, his face unreadable. "Stay with Jaken, Rin. I will return soon." 

Rin, again, reacted immediately to Sesshomaru's authoritative tone. She nodded and ran off to where Jaken awaited her. Miroku stood, waiting with baited breath for whatever command his demon lord might give. 

Sesshomaru hesitated. He could feel the monk breathing behind him, smell his sweat. A desire to be ruled breathed from his every pore. No, this was not like it was with Rin, nor Jaken, nor the others for whom he had unsheathed Tenseiga and invoked its power. The monk was projecting something the others did not. He felt the same undesirable and undesired urge to protect, but more: Rin needed rescue and shelter; Jaken had always wished only to follow him. Their needs irked but did not compel. This monk was different. His desire for Sesshomaru's protection was more complex and most unwelcome. Because it offered the quickest means to ridding himself of this unwanted itch that he would not allow himself the curiosity to scratch, he turned his back to Miroku and demanded he climb on. He would sniff out Inuyasha and his companions' current whereabouts this very night.


	3. Chapter 3

© Salome Wilde, 2008

© Salome Wilde, 2008

Resurrection of a Monk

Chapter 3 

Miroku knew he should remain silent and enjoy the pleasure of the ride. He truly did not care where they were going, so determined was he to live in this moment of servitude and sensation. Lord Sesshomaru's hair was around him and his strength was transporting them through the heavens. An image of his hand reaching down to stroke his master's hip came suddenly to him, but he resisted it with blushing shame. He could never do such a thing to his demon lord. To village girls who might bear his child, certainly. In a flash, he remembered his penchant for firm young female flesh, the numerous slaps he had received and—in secret—relished, and the few who eagerly took him up on his offers. His desire to serve Lord Sesshomaru was unlike such base acts. So then, why did he long to touch the yokai's body?

To distract himself, he risked speech. His lips at his master's slender, pointed ear, he spoke with soft reverence: "Sesshomaru-sama, how badly was I wounded when you came upon me?"

Sesshomaru scoffed at the pointless question. Oh, how these humans did enjoy their unnecessary speech. "You were dead, monk," he replied.

Miroku opened his mouth to speak again, and then closed it. 

The weight of the monk was little, but his presence pressed upon Sesshomaru. He kept his energies focused on the likely location of his hanyo brother and sniffed the air for him frequently. Catching scent of the monk's nervous, fragile state instead—which rose after having broken the news to him that he had not just been returned to health but resurrected from the dead—he cursed his father under his breath once again for bequeathing that worthless regenerative sword while Inuyasha got the powerful fighting weapon. If he had had Tetsusaiga and not Tenseiga in his hand when he saw the dead monk's body, he would have had a more fittingly dismissive response. And he would not now have a dependent human clinging to his back.

Fortunately, it was not difficult to find the odd group of jewel shard-seekers. Sesshomaru hovered over a hollow where the small band sat around a fire. He smelled his brother instantly, a sickly sweet aura both too familiar and yet too different from his own to bear without a cloying revulsion. The odor made him want to rake flesh with his poisoned claws. The reaction was so damned instantaneous, so deep and uncontrolled. He loathed the way it drove him, overriding his ability to retain his self-possessed demeanor. He had reason to hate his hanyo brother, but this was not hate. It was too chemical, too irrational, too visceral. His body tensed and he growled deep in his throat. 

Miroku startled. What was happening? Why had the demon's body become so tense as he paused in the air here? All he saw below was a small group of seated figures. A strange group, indeed, but he sensed no threat from their quiet presence in the dark. Into the sharp-tipped ear before him, he questioned, "Sesshomaru-sama, what is it? Is there danger? Who are those people? Please, let me take on the enemy for you."

Sesshomaru snarled. His chatter was worse than Rin's. That accursed monk now thought to be his champion? He fumed and bristled at fuming simultaneously. Between Inuyasha's repellant scent and the monk's clinging need, he felt thoroughly suffocated. With uncharacteristic abruptness, he dropped to earth on a crag that overhung the little dale and shook the monk from his back. Miroku landed in a heap and blinked up at Sesshomaru with wide, child-hurt eyes. "Look," Sesshomaru commanded, pointing down. He wanted those eyes off of him. "Those are your companions, monk. Do you recognize them?"

Miroku turned his gaze and looked where his master pointed. He saw a ring of seated figures: a slender black-clad woman with a pet of some sort in her arms, likely a cat; another woman in an absurdly short green loincloth; a young fox demon; and a more mysterious being, a red-clad male with hair as long and white as Sesshomaru's yet wilder—and were those furred ears sticking out? He tried hard to focus on the figures, to see them clearly and to remember them. The woman in black might be the one he had seen in the fleeting vision he'd had earlier; was she the one Lord Sesshomaru's daughter had called "Sango"? Or was she "Kagome"? Or neither? His "companions," the demon lord had called them. He wished he knew them, for having companions sounded comforting. But it was Lord Sesshomaru who was his sustenance now. Now and, he hoped, forever. He faced his master. "Forgive me, Sesshomaru-sama, but I do not know them," he said. His heart pounding, he spoke again: "May we leave this place now, my Lord?"

Without conscious thought, Sesshomaru reached out and backhanded Miroku across the mouth. The stunned monk looked even more childlike then, bringing a hand to his jaw and bowing his head. He trembled, and Sesshomaru knew it was not the blow that shook him. Turning away, Sesshomaru resolved to leave the pathetic creature where he sat. Let him find his way back to those who actually wanted his fawning company, who would know and care for him even if he never regained his memory. Let them remove the taint Sesshomaru had brought upon himself by resurrecting the monk. As yet, he raised his eyes to the moon and stepped forward to take to the air, the sound of the monk's soft voice reached him.

"Please, Sesshomaru-sama," he said.

Sesshomaru halted. Against his best judgment and with fury in his soul at his own action, he halted. The voice came again.

"Please, do not abandon me, my lord. I have no right to ask anything of you, the god who brought me back from the dead. But if you must go, master, please, at least tell me why you did it."

Sesshomaru faced his accuser. Why had he done it? Was there an answer for himself, let alone this absurdly weak child-man? No. There was nothing to say. If only these humans would recognize the inadequacies of speech and just be silent. But this monk was not going to be still. "Let it be enough that you are alive, monk," he blazed. "Return to those who desire your company. Whether you regain your memory or not, I do not want you."

"Is my service so unwelcome, Sesshomaru-sama? I ask nothing but to serve you…"

"Be silent, monk. Do not deliberately misunderstand me to quell your own fears. Your destiny lies with others."

Miroku was desperate. His heart raced wildly. He clambered to a kneeling position and brought his forehead to his folded hands on the earth before him. From within this meek position, he raised his face enough to speak and begged, "You are right, Sesshomaru-sama. I am weak and unworthy of your service in such a state. But please, great demon god, stay with me this one night. At sunrise, I will go to the people below as you command. I give my word. You need never see me again. But while the night lasts, most noble lord and master, will you please stay by my side?"

Sesshomaru let the words wash over him. Just words. Foolish words. Excessive and pointless as spoken words always were. They ended soon enough. There. The monk had had his say. The words were past. Now he could leave. In mere seconds, he could fly and put his rash action and all that had followed it behind him. Forever. 

Yet he did not. As if his body controlled his mind and not the reverse, Sesshomaru found himself turning and looking down at the monk's humble posture. There was something so right about it. He must not break the spell and beauty of it. He let his legs fold beneath him and came to sit, crosslegged, before his supplicant. "Rest, monk," he murmured. "Daylight will come soon."


	4. Chapter 4

© Salome Wilde, 2008

© Salome Wilde, 2008

Resurrection of a Monk

Chapter 4

Miroku did as Sesshomaru bid, curling onto his side as near the demon lord as he felt he could risk. Miroku felt an inexplicable urge to press his lips to the cool white crispness of Sesshomaru's robes. Proving himself somehow worthy, his wracked and lost mind told him, was the way to healing. Even if he never remembered the others who were supposed to be his friends, never avenged himself upon Naraku, it would not matter. At Sesshomaru's side he felt peace; lying near his feet he felt purpose. Were he to find a way to inspire in his savior even the tiniest fragment of the fulfillment he experienced in his presence, surely he would not be banished when daylight came. But such hope was pointless. This demon was not the type to be moved by the needs of one such as him. A question suddenly formed in his mind, though, and he sat up to ask it: "Sesshomaru-sama, how well did we know one another before you renewed my life?"

Sesshomaru turned his large, tawny eyes upon the monk. Why could he not simply rest—and let the inuyokai calm his own disquieted mind. "Not well, monk."

Miroku listened to the sound of the wind rustling the leaves for a moment, then spoke again. "Are you never lonely, Sesshomaru-sama?"

"You ask foolish questions, monk."

"I am lonely, Sesshomaru-sama." He rubbed a thumb over his cloth-covered palm absently. "I will die one day, from a curse that I alone must bear. Even among companions such as those with whom you tell me I belong, I will be alone. Even in the arms of women who say they will bear my children to avenge my death, I am alone." He looked into his master's impenetrable eyes. They looked directly into his soul, but he could read nothing in them. It was like looking at the moon: icy, beautiful, and remote; yet watching down over you, over the whole earth. "I think you, too, are cursed, yokai master. You are worshipped, but you are unable to accept adoration. Your suffering is that of a god not a mortal, so I cannot truly understand it. And you will no doubt scorn my words. But, please, magnificent immortal, know that I worship you, adore you, and would give my life to reach and heal you—as you have done for me."

Sesshomaru's response to the monk's speech was immediate and physical. With fluid speed, he reached out and grabbed Miroku by the throat. His eyes scant inches from the monk's, he bared his fangs and gave a menacing growl.

Miroku could not even gasp in horror. He felt the claws press into his vulnerable flesh, and fought against his natural instinct to bring his own hands up to pull Sesshomaru's away. He did not want to close his eyes against Sesshomaru's nearness, but he knew he must. He shut them and bowed his head as much as the demon's grip would allow. If he could have spoken, he would have begged forgiveness for his outburst, but he could not—and he also knew that words were what had brought him to this desperate pass in the first place. A vision of himself, walking with others—perhaps that group in the valley below—and laughing freely, came unbidden to him. He forced it away as he felt Sesshomaru begin to draw blood. This was his life, not that world of casual amorousness and lightheartedness. He did not know that other self, and now he wanted only to sacrifice himself for the master he had failed so miserably.

As the monk's body went slack, Sesshomaru felt his wrath subside. He sensed the depth of the human's surrender, and it soothed his outraged mind. More: it aroused him. And he could see no reason why he should not take something back for all the troubles this Miroku had given him. He removed his hand and rose.

Miroku felt the relief of being able to breathe freely again, of the escape from the pain of the claws at his throat. He heard the shushing sound of Sesshomaru's garments as he came to stand before him. Though the hand at his throat had been inhumanly cool, a heat radiated from the yokai god that filled Miroku's body. What he sought now he could not say, but it took no thought to bring himself to his knees and press his grateful lips to the toe of Sesshomaru's ornate slipper. His master had brought him back from death once, and he had just shown he could but would not take that life now. He could feel only deep gratitude and a desire to display it.

Sesshomaru looked down at the monk's humble posture. How very right this was. He wondered if the slave were capable of more. Softly and slowly, he walked around the body, breathing in the sweet scent of submission. The monk remained still, pressing his forehead to his hands. Was he shivering? All the better. Once positioned behind him, Sesshomaru recognized with pleasure that he had grown rigid from the sight and smell of this willing prey. Let him offer yet more, then. "Bare yourself, monk," he quietly commanded.

Miroku obeyed, gratefully. The touch of Lord Sesshomaru, in whatever way he sought to bestow it, would be bliss. He would know himself to be useful, worthy, and no longer alone. Quickly and without raising his eyes, he disrobed, and then returned to his humbled position. Sesshomaru's firm hand came to the small of his back. He knew instinctively to raise his hips. Anything the god wanted, his body would offer. Sesshomaru gently kicked his legs apart, and bent over him. Miroku felt the long, silver mane cascade over his naked back as his cool, slender fingers reached between his legs for the small, dark aperture that would lay his soul bare. He faced the knowledge that those claws might in a flash rend him, force him open, bloodied and wide, for vicious holy entry. Yet they did not. With a tender care Miroku knew he could never adequately merit, he felt a finger press to the resistant, puckered flesh and hold. The warmth of wetness that could only have come from Lord Sesshomaru's munificent mouth trickled around the opening, and the finger smoothed it and began to penetrate. Miroku hiked his hips higher and moaned softly into the earth beneath him.

Sesshomaru felt the warm, firm flesh of the monk's so-mortal body. He resolutely probed the tight cavity that would soon welcome him fully. How long had it been since a supplicant had thus acknowledged the inuyokai's power and offered himself up for its confirmation? And how much longer still since he had wished to make use of such an offering? His slickened finger now moved freely within the narrow passage, and he paused to indulge himself with the insertion of a second digit. The monk took it so willingly that he inspired generosity. Sesshomaru supplied additional saliva to ease the passage and soothed and aroused his quarry.

"Sesshomaru-sama," the monk purred as he was stretched and worked. Though his recent memory was still lost to him, he did not think he had ever yielded himself in such a fashion. He could not imagine there was anyone else to whom he would surrender in this way. Further thought was lost in the rhythmic sensation of Sesshomaru's perfect use of his more than willing body.

For Sesshomaru, there was pleasure in toying with his prey—especially, he had to confess to himself, this prey. The hand he rightly damned for taking up Tenseiga and bringing the monk back to life he now relished for its service in rendering him appetizingly pliant. However much he condemned himself for his poor judgment in the first act, he could not help but bask in the pleasure of the second. As the naïve monk had rightly noted, his purpose in life was illuminated by Tenseiga's blow. Sesshomaru let his fingers slide slowly out, spit down upon his erection, then poised himself against the monk's slender hips. He gripped the human's hip tightly and, with determined control, began to work his way in.

Miroku felt the thick, blunt cockhead replace his master's claw-tipped fingers and his own shaft jumped at the sensation and expectation of more. It was good to feel this manifestation of his own body's desire, for it let him offer even more to his god: he would in no way attempt to satisfy himself. His body was Lord Sesshomaru's, and his urges were only of value as he denied their gratification. But there was no further time for self-indulgent pleasure in self-imposed suffering as he experienced the searing pain of the first inches being forced inside and past the tightly clenched ring of muscle. He cried out, and Sesshomaru drove further inside him. There was no way to determine whether his master sought to cause additional pain thereby or to begin to relieve it by advancing.

Sesshomaru savored the tight pleasure of that first thrust. Impossibly taut, the muscle captured and threatened his cock. But the battle was his to win. The monk's wail was the cry of an adversary's surrender, and he pressed his advantage, sheathing himself further within the heart of his victim. A third thrust and he had hilted himself, and stood motionless to enjoy the beauty of the small victory. He owned this monk, body and soul, and it made his cock swell. He listened to Miroku's whimpering repetition of his name and felt his muscles contract in welcome. Soon it was not enough to hold still, and Sesshomaru began to fuck the mortal in earnest, releasing saliva to coat himself further as he needed to ensure the slick ride he desired. Let this be easy for us both this first time, he thought, with atypical charity. And he remarked at the implications of his musing even more than at his generosity: the first time. Yes, there would be more. He would not release the monk from his service when daylight came. Not when it felt so good to own him this way.

Miroku felt himself overtaken by Sesshomaru's powerful thrusts. He forced himself to relax into the increasingly hard use. Was it the sweetness of how slowly and carefully he had begun, the kindness of the lubrication he offered, or the way his pain so quickly turned to unutterable pleasure that now made tears stream from his tight-shut eyes? He fought the desire to press his hips back onto Sesshomaru's cock, to match the rhythm that held him, mesmerized, in its grip. But no, this must not be about his needs. He arched harder, dug his fingers into the soft earth, and uttered a silent prayer: Let this never end. Let this night never turn to day. Let his master never want less of him than this.

Sesshomaru felt the desire for release building within him, and controlled it with the same self-assured mastery with which he mastered the monk's passive body. He increased the pace and depth of his thrusts to see just how much more the human could take without begging him to stop. But though he sobbed and called out Sesshomaru's name, there was no hint of resistance or desire for escape from the relentless use. Moreover, Sesshomaru found that he actually enjoyed the tears shed in his name. He reached his hand forward and thrust it into the monk's hair, then pulled his head up and back hard. "Give me more, monk," he grunted as he drove on. "Sing my praises with your tears."

Miroku obeyed without thought, as the leverage Lord Sesshomaru found by gripping him by the hair forced his massive cock deeper with every stroke. He wept like a child as his shaft strained before him. There was nothing left of his will; he became the emptiness that his master alone could fill.

The monk's several scents were what finally drove the inuyokai to release. His tears smelled of the ocean and his sweat of the earth's fertile clay. Yet, the subservience, too, had an aroma; pale, faint, and far headier than those of the body. It roused and moved Sesshomaru. With a roar, he plunged, unleashing his pleasure and pouring forth his seed.

Miroku collapsed beneath the climactic thrust, as certain of the tearing open of his tender orifice as he was of his its unimportance. Lord Sesshomaru's whole body now covered his, a master's embrace, still pumping its liquid release deep inside him. He gloried in this use of his body, in the feel of the yokai's weight upon his. Pinned to the soil, he felt his untouched cock roughly caressed by the dirt and grass and his own flesh as his master continued to grind into him. Against what little he found of conscious will, he fought the coarse stimulation. But he was no match for his own painful arousal and weakness. He peaked and discharged, and felt the demon lord react to the spasms of his muscles as he came. The reaction was instantaneous and unexpected: the monk's climax urged the god on.

Sesshomaru could easily have punished the monk for his release by simply withdrawing, he knew. But the stimulation made his erection grow stiff and demanding again, and he had no intention of chastising the monk at the expense of his own pleasure. Wrapping his arm around human's small waist, he propped him back onto his knees and drove him onto his shaft. After only a few thrusts, he was pleased to see that the willing monk understood that he was now to press back and ride his master's cock. Sesshomaru looked down with satisfaction at the blood-tinged ejaculate that lubricated and dripped from the monk's ensnared ass. Lifting his eyes as Miroku eagerly milked and fed his need, Sesshomaru took note of the night sky. With several hours to go until sunrise, there was ample time for as much release as he might wish.


	5. Chapter 5

© Salome Wilde, 2008

© Salome Wilde, 2008

Resurrection of a Monk

Chapter 5

Long before the dawn, Miroku's tears had dried and his voice was hoarse from crying out. He had been taken until nearly sunrise, when Sesshomaru had gone from abundant fluid reward to a final harsh, dry crest, and at last released him. After, the inuyokai had turned the monk around to have himself cleaned and soothed by his soft, servile mouth, then came to a sitting position, replacing his exhausted member into his robes. When finally allowed, Miroku simply collapsed where he was. Sesshomaru looked down at his well-used body: long scratches down his back, bite marks in his shoulder, claw marks in his hips. He already knew what his ravaged ass looked like. He had enjoyed watching himself ride the hapless slave. He would never have imagined the monk would be so pliant, so responsive, so resilient. Perhaps Tenseiga had at last proved its value.

Sesshomaru doubted that the poor monk had any idea the sun would be up in mere minutes. And that would be fine. Let him wake to a new day, unsuspecting a new life of service to his master's inexhaustible appetites. Certainly, he could be punished well for his failure to rise and depart as he had been commanded. Sesshomaru—who was even tired himself after such energetic exploits, truth be told—allowed himself to shut his eyes and rest, too.

Miroku simply let himself breathe as his body fell to earth. His every muscle was screaming; his every nerve was shattered. Yet, striving toward prominence in his overwrought mind was the thought that he had served. He had brought Lord Sesshomaru pleasure. He had offered submission and, thereby, adoration. No word of praise for his part had been offered and none was needed. Words did not please his master; this much was clear. Magnifying the demon's mastery and glory by remaining receptive, willing, obedient were what left him feeling worthy. Dawn was near, and he would depart. No matter how much physical pain it would cause him to rise and walk away, no matter how much emotional anguish, he would do it. This one final step would prove to Lord Sesshomaru the depth and manner of his adulation. He would not fail, even though it meant he would perhaps never see his god again. He let himself drift, determined to wake at the first sign of sunrise.

As day dawned, it was Miroku who awakened not Sesshomaru. His body still throbbing and screaming for rest, the monk forced himself, silently, into a sitting position. He would not wake his master. His head felt heavy; rising made him dizzy. He came to his knees and felt he might vomit. He closed his eyes and tried to stand. Reaching out his hand, he knew Sango would be there to steady him. Sango. And suddenly, it all came back.

Falling back to a sitting position, Miroku sifted through the thoughts that came not in pieces or in waves but whole, without gap. He had left his companions only two days ago, journeying alone, on a pilgrimage of sorts to the Uesugi Shrine. Several recent battles had forced him to use his wind tunnel more than he thought was safe. Yet, it had to be done. His companions were in need. He brought the images of Sango, Kagome, Inuyasha, Kirara, and Shippo to mind with ease. It was deeply reassuring just to be able to picture them all again. Yes, he had left them for a short trip, hoping he would find at the shrine its twin guardians, priestesses who were reported to have protective powers for the cursed. That they were also young and beautiful in appearance drew Miroku as well, though he did not admit that to his friends. He had no idea that Naraku would target him when he was alone, and the third use of his wind tunnel in only five days, plus the absorption of many saimyosho had devastated him. He remembered the feel of the poison taking effect and falling to the ground. Then, no more.

No more…until he had revived to find Sesshomaru standing before him. Sesshomaru! Lord Sesshomaru. His god and his master. His savior…was Sesshomaru. He looked over at the seated figure near him. His eyes were closed. He was majestic, imposing, even in sleep. How could Miroku reconcile the yokai he had come to worship with the creature he knew from deadly and futile battles with Inuyasha, the cold and distant lord who loathed humans and hanyo alike? He wanted to throw himself down and grovel at his feet: _take the memories away, master; let me serve and fulfill you_. And he wanted to run, as far and as fast as his broken body and torn mind could take him. He could no more face his companions than he could face Lord Sesshomaru. He drew himself to his feet with pain and forced his legs to carry him. The searing agony between his legs was the worst of it, for it ached as well as reminded him with every step of the man he had become only hours earlier for his indomitable demon god. Despite and through the pain, he walked, needing to put both Sesshomaru and his other self behind him.

"Monk," came Sesshomaru's voice, before he had gone half a dozen steps.

Miroku halted but did not turn. The impulse that halted him also enraged him, and his hands balled into fists.

Sesshomaru knew in that instant that the monk was his no longer. The momentary thought that he was leaving in obedience to his command vanished when he did not turn around when summoned. The clenched hands at his sides unnecessarily drove the point home. Sesshomaru narrowed his eyes in displeasure. He told himself he was relieved that any spoken discourse was now superfluous. He rose, ensured his swords were properly sheathed and held within his sash, and lifted into the air.

From behind him, Miroku spoke quietly and firmly: "Thank you for returning my life." Even those few words were torture, for the idea of being beholden to Sesshomaru was repugnant to him. That his gratitude necessarily referenced acts of debasement so grotesque that he could not recognize himself in his own memory was certainly central to the pain. Though Miroku had come in the past months to treasure the company of likeminded companions and to appreciate their support, he was not one to surrender his pride. And it galled him that only minutes ago such a statement was untrue, false to his very soul. Only minutes ago that soul belonged to Sesshomaru. But he would think of this no more. Now was the time to leave, to return to his companions, those who knew him truly, who respected him as a partner in pursuit of the Shikon jewel, who valued his fighting skills, lamented his curse, and understood—even if they disparaged—his pursuit of women. Their company would soon return him to himself.

Sesshomaru did not remain to watch the monk's retreat. His thanks were absurd. Either his life was forfeit, his fate Sesshomaru's to determine, or it was not. His declaration of gratitude was a feeble attempt to deny the way he had that night given himself into Sesshomaru's control, into servitude—and beyond. No, he did not want this Miroku, alive or dead. The monk he desired was neither of these things, neither alive nor dead. He simply did not exist. And Lord Sesshomaru had no time for fantasy. He soared through the sky. His solitude would soon return him to himself.

End

Author's Note: I like pausing here, as it seems right but also leaves open the possibility of revisiting the two at their next meeting. Will time let them forget, or will either or both still harbor unwanted desires for what their brief encounter made of them?


	6. Chapter 6

Dear Readers of "Resurrection of a Monk":

Please excuse this non-chapter and let me point you toward the sequel, entitled "Resurrection of a Monk II," because I just had to come back to this pairing and the D/s scenario.

In Part II, Miroku finds he is no longer happy with his friends and longs to be at Sesshomaru's feet again. But will Sesshomaru want him back? Is he capable of the subservience he longs to offer his former master?

Please come read the story as it unfolds and let me know what you think. First chapter now up.

(I'll be deleting this "chapter" soon.)

Thanks,

Salomé


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